


Entr'Acte I

by Crowgirl



Series: Boston 'Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fantasy, M/M, Masturbation, Sex, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:58:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This technically comes between Day One and Day Two.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Entr'Acte I

**Author's Note:**

> This technically comes between Day One and Day Two.

By the time he goes to bed that night, Castiel is half-hard and furious with himself.

He sits on the edge of his bed, glaring down at his crotch, and gives himself a stern -- silent -- lecture, broken into into numbered bullet points on how _wrong_ this is.

Point number one: Dean will be leaving in the morning.

Point number two: He has no idea who Dean is...

Subpoint one: ...where Dean comes from...

Subpoint two: ...or what he’s doing.

Point number three: This is _not_ a pick-up, a set-up, an assignation, a one-night stand, a blind date, or anything else that could possibly end in...

Subpoint one: ...Castiel knocking on Dean’s door...

Subpoint two: ...Dean knocking on Castiel’s door...

Subpoint three: ...anyone appearing in anyone else’s morning shower.

Point number four: It is a gross disservice to someone Castiel has _volunteered to help_ to fantasize about them.

Subpoint one: It is not Dean’s fault that he is the most attractive thing to have entered this apartment in two years.

Castiel gives up at point four because it’s ridiculously clear that none of this is helping or making the slightest difference.

He falls on his back on the bed and throws his arm over his eyes.

Work. He can think about work. He has to work tomorrow. Work is good. Doing his work efficiently is good. Work will keep him from thinking about the fact that Dean is in the small guest room down the hall-- _No._

He cannot think about the fact that the sheets he had taken from the closet had been his least favorite set, so they have that slightly stale smell of unused cloth.

He cannot think about the glass of cold tea with honey that he left on the corner of the bedside table along with a fresh box of tissues.

He cannot think about the fact that he pulled the warmest comforter off the chair in the corner of his own room and folded it at the bottom of Dean’s bed.

And he _will_ not think about whether or not Dean sleeps naked.

* * *

Castiel gets himself through the rest of his pre-bed routine with as little thought as possible. He leaves the bathroom light off so he won’t have to look at himself in the mirror and admit what a terrible job he’s doing of not thinking.

He changes his clothes for pajama pants and a loose t-shirt, brushes his teeth, splashes water over his face, rubs lotion over a dry spot on his elbow, tosses his socks in the hamper -- all without admitting that he’s listening for noises from the room down the hall.

Once or twice he hears a muffled cough; once a squeaking that he thinks sounds like the bedstead. Nellie noses her way into the room, wanders around it, then disappears back out into the hall again and he guesses she is checking out the new person in her space.

He hears the noise like coughing again and hesitates. 

Dean _is_ sick after all -- perhaps it would be considerate to...

 _Check and see if sex is the cure for the common cold?_ He shuts his door firmly, then cracks it open an inch or so for Nellie’s sake; she hates being shut away from him. 

He turns off the overhead light and throws back his covers. He goes through the motions of going to bed -- turning on the alarm, lowering the volume on the phone’s ring, fluffing his pillows -- and steadily ignores the faint ache of his nerves and the anxious fluttering feeling that makes him want to wrap his hand around his dick and be done with this whole charade of pretending he isn’t worked up enough to make his skin tingle.

Instead, he stretches out, just his feet under the covers. The October night is cool but not cold and he’s feeling...slightly overheated.

He picks up his book, propping it on his stomach. _I will focus. I will focus._

But instead of focussing, he finds himself distracted by the feeling of his hand on his stomach. Experimentally, he presses his hand down a little more firmly, stroking along the line of muscle from his navel to his hip-- _For God’s sake..._

He puts his hand flat on the sheet beside his thigh and forces himself back to the book. **The English nation then declared by its parliament** Good, it was working. **that it would no longer tolerate popery in Ireland**

There’s the sound of coughing again and Castiel stiffens. The sound dies away and he tries to go back to the book. A paragraph or two go well -- then a page or two and he shifts, raising a knee as a book prop. He fiddles with the drawstring of his flannel pants, easing the waistband into a more comfortable position. His fingertips slip, half-accidentally, under the band and brush through the rough scatter of hair on his lower belly.

He fixes his eyes on the text in front of him: **I have said that Connaught was the only province in which Catholics were received, though it ceased not to be occupied by Protestants. It may easily be imagined...**

Then he feels his own hand pressing down over the curve of his hip, fingertips stretching towards the base of his cock without even _meaning_ to do it-- and groans, dropping the book on his face. _Goddamn it._

Without moving the book, he fumbles for the bedside lamp switch. When the room goes dark, he shoves the book aside and yanks up the covers, curling on his side and pushing his hand under his waistband. 

His hand is cold in comparison to the overheated warmth of his abdomen and thighs and he squeezes his cock a little roughly, wanting to punish himself for wanting this -- for not listening to his own damned good sense and for lusting after the handsome stranger.

 _He’s not even that good-looking,_ he tells himself in disgust. _He has a lazy eye. And crooked legs._

But that just brings him a brief, tantalizingly indistinct vision of what Dean might look like with those legs spread -- what the muscles in his thighs might look like, smell like, _taste_ like-- and Castiel is gasping into his clenched hand against the pillow, wishing he had thought to rummage out the bottle of lube from the bottom of his dresser drawer.

He has other things hidden away there that haven’t seen the light of day for a long time. He’d bought the first of them with Zach -- a slender vibrator that neither of them had liked very much and he wasn’t really sure why he kept -- and the last with Mark -- a short, fat, black plug that he liked an embarrassingly large amount.

That would be too much right now, though, more than he needs, more than he deserves to have for fantasizing about his houseguest.

He pushes against the firmness of the mattress, trying to get pressure on his nipples without admitting, even to himself, that he wants it. His cheeks are burning against the cool pillow and he can hear himself starting to breathe faster.

 _Oh, fuck it..._ Since it’s clear he’s going to do this, he might as well _do_ it. He turns on his back and wriggles his pants half-way down his thighs. It’s still a little awkward -- the blankets are a bit heavy over his crotch -- but that will feel good in the long run. He likes the pressure, the sense of weight over him.

And it’s not like Dean _knows._ Castiel hadn’t been that obvious, he’s sure, and it isn’t as though Dean can hear through the wall. A little fantasy can’t possibly _hurt_ the man...right?

Castiel closes his eyes, snaking his free hand under his shirt and tweaking at a nipple, then pressing his hand hard over it, feeling the soft flesh pebble into a hard peak. _God...too long, too long..._ He raises one knee, giving his hand a little more room to play.

So, guessing from hands and arms, Dean would be muscular -- built, cut around the arms and belly, maybe, but not inflated. There would be soft places between shoulder and arm, wrist and hand, abdomen and thigh where Castiel could run his tongue, smooth his fingers, test out the texture of skin and hair and sweat. 

Castiel stifles a groan and licks his fingers, tasting the tang of his own body before he shoves his hand back down between his legs. He wants more, wants pressure on his nipples, something to thrust against -- the curl of his own fingers isn’t what he wants even when he tightens his grip, pushing his damp thumb over the head of his cock. It’s almost too much, sharp bursts of sensation that make his thighs clench and his stomach tremble.

 _Dean has good hands. Wide, square, straight fingers--_ They would _have_ to feel good: warm and solid and slightly _heavy_ and -- _oh, God_ \-- thick if he pushed inside--

Castiel bites his lip hard and rings his fingers around the base of his cock, pressing back the orgasm he so desperately wants. Instead, he sucks two fingers of his free hand, taking his time, imagining what Dean’s skin might taste like, letting the desire in his gut build to a burn, until he can’t wait, doesn’t _want_ to wait, wouldn’t want _Dean_ to wait. Then he spreads his leg out to the side, angling his knee off the edge of the mattress, and slips his fingers back between his legs.

Dean’s fingers would be wider -- his hands are a little larger than Castiel’s -- and two fingers would be more of a stretch and _God,_ he can’t push and pull at the same time--

It takes a last moment of frantic tugging before he finally comes, a hard, almost painful arch that lifts his hips off the bed, soaks his hand, and leaves him breathless.

**Author's Note:**

> The book Castiel is reading: _Ireland_ , Gustave de Beaumont, Ed./Trans. W.C. Taylor, Intro. Tom Garvin, Andreas Hess (Cambridge, Mass.; Belknap Press of Harvard University, 2006), pgs. 37 and 42.


End file.
